


the beast you've made of me

by sterlingsparrow



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Beauty and the Beast Fusion, Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, M/M, discussion of javert's suicide, it's a fusion with the folktale instead of the disney version tho, mentions of bishop myriel, the eposette is VERY lowkey, tw: mentions of blood
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-07
Updated: 2019-04-07
Packaged: 2020-01-06 13:35:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,046
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18389468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sterlingsparrow/pseuds/sterlingsparrow
Summary: “I shall go,” the old man says abruptly.“What?”He nods. “I shall go, to stop the beast’s howling. I will leave before the morning; when the townspeople ask where I have gone, tell them that the beast asked for an old man to devour instead of a child. That he has at least a bit of a heart.”“He did not say he would devour you,” his daughter says thoughtfully.“Let them believe so.”





	the beast you've made of me

There has been howling in the hills for as long as anyone can remember.

_It is a beast_ , the townspeople whisper. _A gigantic beast, who kills the cattle and lives in the old monastery in the forest. Someday it will grow bold and begin stealing our children instead of our livestock._ For now, the beast stays in its monastery. If a cow is dragged away every so often, the townspeople curse the beast, but continue on with their business. It is better to lose a cow than yourself.

Then comes the hottest summer in living memory. The crops wither in the fields, and the animals cower from the sun. People faint in broad daylight. In the night, which is heavy with heat, it is too hot even for the crickets and the moon seems almost red.

The summer drags on far longer than normal. The farmers despair over their failed crops with fanning themselves. In the hills, the howling grows louder, and it creeps into the day until there is hardly ever a moment of silence or peace. Babies cry, men weep from exhaustion, and children keep their hands clapped over ears. Despairing, the townspeople turn to the old man for help.

The old man keeps to himself, living with his daughter and his books at the outskirts of the town. He is wise, however, and can solve nearly any problem presented to him. The day after the townspeople consult him, he emerges from his house with his head hung low.

The stories say beasts can be appeased with the gift of a young woman, he says. The townspeople pale.

No girl steps forward. Eventually, the old man’s daughter volunteers herself for the task, albeit with hesitance. As no one else has offered, it is decided that she will be sent.

The old man weeps as he helps his daughter ready herself. Her mother is long dead, and without his daughter, he will be alone. She smiles sadly and kisses his cheek. There is no comfort she can offer; she is still young, still foolish, though she is wise as anyone her age can be.

The old man’s daughter leaves at dawn on foot, as they have no horse. She gives a final smile before she goes. Her father weeps and does not stop weeping until noon. He retreats to his books, but he cannot keep his mind on the page.

It is nearly midnight when there is a knock at the door. When the old man opens it, his daughter stands there.

“The beast rejected me,” she explains, once her father has finished gushing over her. They sit at the table, cups of tea in their hands.

“He roared and threw me from the monastery,” the girl continues. “He said that he did not cause the winter, and that the townspeople were foolish to send a child to him. If they want him to stop howling, they might as well send the convict that lives at the edge of the town.”

The old man pales. His daughter smiles gently and pats his hand.

“He told me, Papa,” she says gently. “About my mother and about you, and I do not love you any less for it.”

“I shall go,” the old man says abruptly.

“What?”

He nods. “I shall go, to stop the beast’s howling. I will leave before the morning; when the townspeople ask where I have gone, tell them that the beast asked for an old man to devour instead of a child. That he has at least a bit of a heart.”

“He did not say he would devour you,” his daughter says thoughtfully.

“Let them believe so.” The old man raises the cup to his lips. “If the beast is who I think he is, I would not put it past him. If he does not, I promise I will return home before next winter. Even if it is only to see your face for a moment, my sweet daughter, I will come home.”

The girl nods, though her face is pained.

They sleep for a few hours, and then the old man begins to pack for his journey. This time it is his daughter who weeps. Before the old man leaves, he gives her two instructions: to keep the silver candlesticks on the mantle well-polished, and to tell no one what the beast has said of him. His daughter promises to do so with tears in her eyes.

“Do come home, Papa,” she tells him. She manages a small smile. “Who knows? Perhaps by the time you return, I will have found my love again.”

“Perhaps,” her father whispers. He turns away, if only to hide the silver tears on his own face.

The path to the monastery is not long. It takes half a day on foot, less on horseback, but the old man has no horse. The walk is difficult as well; he must climb over rocks and wade through streams. If he were another man, he would wonder how his daughter managed it, but the old man is wise. He watched his daughter grow from a small child, and he knows what she is capable of.

It is not quite noon when he reaches the monastery. It is protected by a stone wall and an iron gate; the gate has been broken open, and the old man walks in without trouble.

“Beast?” he calls, and is struck by another thought. “Javert!”

There is a growl from within the monastery. “Get out of here, Valjean! I do not wish to see you!”

The voice is familiar. Valjean’s memory is not what it once was, but it is still strong, and if the beast’s words are more gravelly than that of the man he remembers? That is due to time, likely.

Valjean does not respond. He sits down on the ground, cross-legged, and places his walking stick on the ground before him. He waits.

He is a patient man. The beast is not; Javert had not been. Less than ten minutes pass before another growl comes from within the dilapidated building once more.

“I said get out of here! I sent your daughter away, and I wish to see _you_ even less!”

“I will not leave until you face me,” Valjean says calmly. “You may arrest me if you like. That offer is still open.”

There is a howl, so loud he covers his ears.

“I am an inspector no longer!” Javert roars. “I am a _man_ no longer! Leave me!”

He does not.

Valjean stays there as the hours pass, unmoving. He is very good at waiting. Javert grows quiet in the monastery, and Valjean wonders if he has forgotten about him.

Finally, when the shadows have grown long and the sun has nearly vanished, the wooden doors to the monastery are thrown open. Javert stands in the doorway and does not come further, so Valjean must squint to see him.

At first, he is confused. Javert is clothed in the greatcoat he favored as a man, and his hat is tugged over his head. He looks eerily similar to how Valjean remembers him.

Then as his eyes grow more used to the dark, Valjean sees Javert as he is, and he cannot help but recoil.

He is human, and yet he is not. He is the man Valjean knew, and yet he is not.

He stands on two legs, hands hanging by his side, but his bootless feet are now paws and his fingers are claws. He is cloaked in black fur, and when Javert raises his head, it is human no more: it is that of a wolf-dog, with a snout and fangs.

His eyes, however, are human yet.

“Who did this to you?” Valjean whispers. Javert ignores him. 

“I have faced you,” he snarls. “I have shown my face to you—to you, of all people! Now go!”

He does not move. “It is nearly dark. I cannot walk home in the dark. There is howling in the hills, you know, and I would hate to meet whatever howls.”

“That has been me, you fool! You know very well it was me!”

“There was howling even when I knew you as a man,” Valjean replies evenly. “I suspect there are wolves, or worse.”

“You are strong,” Javert snaps.

“I am. I could battle a single wolf, perhaps. But they travel in packs, and I don’t think I would survive a pack. They would tear me to pieces,” he adds, in a cheerful manner. From what he can see of Javert’s expression, he finds the image distasteful.

They stare at each other for a long moment, Javert furious, Valjean calm.

“Fine,” Javert grumbles. He turns away. “There is a bed in what I believe was once the abbot’s room. You may sleep there.”

“An abbot’s—Javert, I could not presume to sleep in an abbot’s bed!” Valjean protests, rising at last.

“The monks’ rooms have wooden benches for beds. Would you prefer that? I know it would not be a new experience.”

Valjean pales.

“Where is the abbot’s room?” he asks, trying to keep his voice steady as he follows Javert into the monastery.

“At the very end of this hall, on the left side.” he waves a clawed hand. “It overlooks what I think was once the gardens.”

“Where will you sleep?”

Javert may be rude, vengeful, but that does not mean Valjean must be. He waits for the answer patiently, and several minutes pass before he does.

“Outside,” Javert says quietly. Then he amends, “not quite. I sleep in the doorway to the garden.”

“Why? There is a bed, and you are alone. Usually.”

He laughs, the sound almost a bark. “Beds are for men. Dogs sleep outside and in doorways, and I am a dog.”

“Javert—” Valjean begins, but Javert snarls at him and runs. He is left alone in the hall, walking stick in one hand and bag in the other.

 

He sleeps well, the best sleep he has had in months. It is not broken by howls, though he is sure Javert howls in the night.

When Valjean wakes, it is just past dawn. He walks to the doorway that leads to the garden. Indeed, Javert is curled there. He lays just as a dog lays in sleep, and Valjean cannot help but feel pity.

He sits beside the man and leans his back against the stone wall. His bag is still over his shoulder, and Valjean takes out a knife and block of wood. He had packed them in case he had grown bored on the walk to the monastery, but it had been such an effort he had not been able to carve.

That is what he does now. He has not carved in years, but he has nothing else to do. He misses his books.

Javert sleeps for a long time. When he finally wakes, the sun is high in the sky and Valjean has carved almost half the block of wood away.

Javert yawns beside him and stretches, then looks up. He leaps onto all fours, snarling. 

“It is only me, Javert,” Valjean reminds him, without looking away from his work. “Do you remember? I came yesterday, and my daughter the day before, though you cast her out.”

“I remember,” Javert mutters. He sits back, and the image is so similar to that of a dog sitting on his haunches that Valjean feels another surge of pity.

“Why are you still here?” he demands. “I let you stay only because you didn’t wish to walk home in the dark. I will admit, the fear is not unfounded.”

Valjean puts his carving down at last. “You never answered my question. I asked you yesterday evening: who did this to you? You were a man once.”

“Nosy,” Javert huffs, narrowing his eyes.

“I am curious.”

“You are nosy,” he snaps. He looks away. “I will not tell you. It is a boring story, and you will undoubtedly feel sorry for me. I know you, Valjean."

Valjean sighs. “Fine. Will you… will you at least tell me what you eat up here? It cannot be much.”

There is only silence. He hits Javert’s shoulder lightly, and he grumbles.

“What I can find. Rabbits and squirrels, mostly. I am hungry most days.”

“That is a terrible diet,” Valjean says, shaking his head. “There is a garden, you said. Do you take care of it?”

“I have claws,” Javert says pointedly. He does not elaborate.

“I will take care of it for you, then.” He rises. “I have experience with gardens. Besides, it will be something for me to do.”

“Will you leave when it is finished?” Javert asks.

“Not until you answer my question!”

There is no reply. Valjean kneels at the edge of the garden; it is a mess, overgrown and choked with weeds, but he can see useful plants everywhere. All he must do is tame them.

When he looks back to the doorway, Javert is curled up again. Asleep.

Valjean smiles to himself and begins his work.

 

He spends the day in the garden. When the sun begins to slip below the horizon, he sits back on his heels and studies his handiwork.

He has cleared less than a quarter of the garden, but at this pace, it will be a proper garden soon enough. Valjean smiles again.

“Valjean.”

He looks behind him. Javert is hovering in the doorway, hat gone, though he is still in his greatcoat. The fur of his clawed hands is matted with red, but Valjean chooses to ignore it.

“Can you start a fire?” Javert asks. “I… I caught two blackbirds. It is not much, but they will do for a meal, and I think you would prefer to eat cooked food. I cannot start a fire, not with these.”

“Of course,” Valjean replies, and pushes himself to his feet.

He needs to only start the fire. Javert sends him back to the garden after that, and Valjean is grateful that he does not have to witness the birds being cooked—not that he would admit it. When Javert calls him again, the sun is fully gone and he is working by moonlight. The food is charred slightly. Javert hands him his portion with a guilty look.

“I am not used to cooking,” he mumbles.

“It’s all right.”

They eat in silence, until a thought occurs to Valjean. He puts his food down.

“The townspeople complain of their cows being taken sometimes,” he says thoughtfully. “They blame it on you. Is it true?”  
Javert stares into the fire. “Yes. I… I have taken three of them. It was in the dead of winter each time, when the animals around the monastery had vanished and I hadn’t eaten in weeks. That is no excuse, I know. I am a thief. If I ever become a man again, the first thing I will do is turn myself into the police as such.”

“Don’t.”

“Why shouldn’t I?” he snaps, and Valjean raises an eyebrow.   
“I know what it’s like to have to steal because one is hungry,” he says gently. “You know that. And besides, they complained of more than thirty cows that had been taken in the last ten years. Three are hardly noticeable, compared to the ones the other wolves have stolen.”

“Hm.”

He tilts his head. “Now do you understand why I did what I did? You ought to. Holding a crime committed over thirty years ago against me, when you have been forced to do the same… it isn’t just, is it?”

“I no longer consider you a criminal!” Javert says hotly. “Why do you think I—”

“Why do I think you what?” Valjean asks curiously.

“Nothing.”

“Tell me,” he insists. But Javert simply turns away, and silence settles over them once more.

 

The next few days are silent, save for when Javert calls Valjean each evening to start a fire for their food. It is always meat of some sort. A rabbit one day, a goose the next. Towards the end of the first week, Javert hauls a doe into the monastery.

“Large game is the best,” he tells Valjean as they eat. “It lasts. I have a few days where I don’t have to hunt. Although to be fair, hunting is one of the few things I have to occupy my time.”

“Where do you keep it?” Valjean asks.

“That is none of your concern.”

Valjean rises in the middle of the night and mops up the traces of blood in the hall. They lead to a door; whether or not it is locked, he does not know, for he doesn’t try to open it. He can guess what lies inside.

 

Two weeks pass before he has completely tamed the garden. Javert is still asleep in his doorway the morning Valjean finishes, and he shakes him awake.

“Javert!” Valjean exclaims. “Look—I have turned this into a proper garden! Look!”

“It is wonderful,” Javert mumbles. His voice is heavy with sleep.

“We will eat more than simply meat now.”

Javert peers at him. “What do you mean, ‘we’? I thought you would go once you had tamed the garden.”

“I said I would go once you told me how you became a beast,” Valjean replies, a little slyly. Javert scoffs, but he does not growl at him.

The unending summer is finally slipping away. The days are growing colder, shorter; soon, Valjean must wear his yellow tailcoat over his waistcoat and shirtsleeves. The first time Javert sees it, he howls with laughter.

“I thought you had rid yourself of that thing!” he wheezes. “Or that your daughter had!”

Valjean peers at his sleeves. “What’s wrong with it? It is my coat. I have worn it for years.”

“You look ridiculous,” Javert replies. But he is smiling, if a wolf-dog can smile.

Valjean spends his days tending to the garden, though he doesn’t need to spend nearly as much time with it, and carving wood.

The last time he carved wood, his daughter was young and he carved toys for her, little animals that she loved. He is not an expert at it, but he is good enough. Now, he carves anything: little trees, rings, wooden shoes only a doll could wear.

It is something to do.

Javert watches him sometimes, and fiddles with the wood shavings. Valjean will stop and watch curiously, until Javert catches him staring and drops the shavings with a huff.

One day, Valjean finishes carving a small wooden ball; without thinking, he tosses it to Javert. Javert catches it in his mouth.

He cannot help but burst into laughter. Javert rolls the ball back to him, grumbling.

“You are ridiculous,” he mutters. Valjean grins and tosses the ball to him again. This time, Javert grabs it in his claws and throws it to him.

They continue in that manner until night. Valjean finds he is almost reluctant to go to bed, but his eyelids are drooping and he drops the ball more than once. He bids goodbye, and Javert is still examining the wooden ball.

In the morning, Valjean finds him asleep in his usual doorway. Beside him is the wooden ball Valjean has carved; beside that, is a smaller, cruder one. There are wood shavings between Javert’s claws.

Valjean pockets the ball quietly.

 

There is a small chapel on the monastery grounds. Valjean does not think to visit it until half the leaves have left the trees, but when he does, he is shocked.

“Javert,” he says at dinner that night, “the chapel is a disaster.”

Javert shrugs. “I do not pray. How would I have any way of knowing?”

“I shall repair it,” Valjean declares. Javert simply chuckles, shaking his head.

It takes far longer to repair the chapel than the garden, but Valjean is determined to. He fixes the outside first, repairing the roof and tearing the ivy from the walls; he must do so before the snow falls. Then, he moves onto to the inside. It is a month and a half of daily work until Valjean is satisfied.

He shows Javert. Javert is impressed, he admits, but he tells Valjean not to expect him to pray. Valjean simply shrugs. Even if he is the only one to use the chapel, at least it is used and kept tidy.

The first snow comes that night. When Valjean comes upon Javert in the doorway, he is shivering and covered in snow.

“Javert,” he says quietly, and shakes him. “Javert, do you spend every winter like this?”

“I spend the winters in the hall,” Javert says. He sneezes.

“There is no door to keep the cold out.”

“No. But I have fur, and a greatcoat. I am a dog; why should I sleep in a bed?”

Valjean shakes his head. “You are a man cursed to look like a dog. You are not a dog yourself.”

He forces Javert to spend the day in the abbot’s room, with a fire in the hearth. Then he sets about building a door for Javert’s favored doorway.

Finding the wood takes nearly the entire day. When Valjean returns, he is red with cold and shaking. Javert makes him go to bed, and even lies the greatcoat upon him.

“But you—” Valjean protests, and Javert shakes his head.

“I have my waistcoat and shirtsleeves, fool,” he replies, “and my trousers as well. The greatcoat is of no matter. Besides, you have lit a fire.”

“What if it spreads and burns you as you sleep?” Valjean whispers. Sleep is already tugging at his mind.

“I have slept the day away. I will stay awake until you rise yourself.” Javert bares his teeth in a grin. “Who knows? Perhaps I will grow weary and begin howling to wake you.”

Valjean wakes at nearly noon. Javert is curled in front of the hearth, but his human eyes are still open.

“Are you not tired?” Valjean asks. He hands him the greatcoat. “You have been awake all night.”

Javert shrugs as he wraps himself in his coat. “I’ve spent weeks awake at a time ever since I became this. Two days? Hardly out of the ordinary. In fact, I believe you have made me lazy.”

“Would you like to help me with the door?” Valjean says, laughing.

“My claws would surely ruin it.”

“Fair enough.”

Valjean works on the door until nearly midnight, and does not stop to eat. He is trying to hang it when Javert lays a hand on his arm.

“Rest,” he says, and his voice is the gentlest Valjean has ever heard it. “You are only human. You are shaking.”

In the morning, the door has been hung. Javert lays asleep against it.

 

Valjean grows bored with his carving around the time the new year comes. He begins to explore the monastery, though he avoids the door he did not open the night Javert caught a doe, back in the summer. He invites Javert on his escapades.

“Why not?” Javert says, and his voice is weary. He drops to all fours as they walk.

_He looks just like the dog he claims he is_ , Valjean realizes, though Javert is bigger than any dog. He is more the size of a wolf.

“You have not answered my question, even in all these months,” he wonders aloud. Javert scoffs beside him.

“It is a ridiculous question,” he mutters.

“You will not get rid of me without answering.”

“Hmph.”

“Will you at least tell me how long you have been this way?” Valjean asks, as they stop at the base of the stairs. Javert bounds up them.

“Five years,” he says, turning.

“I saw you last five years ago,” Valjean muses.

“Exactly. Are you coming or not?”

Valjean wonders what the _exactly_ means, but he does not ask, instead following Javert up the stairs. He has never been on the second floor, and Javert informs him he hasn’t either.

Valjean smiles. “Then this shall be an adventure for both of us.”

“We are walking the second floor of a place we have lived in for months. I would hardly call thatan adventure.”

“Oh, have a bit of fun, won’t you? Or at least be quiet and let me have fun.”

One of the rooms, to Valjean’s joy, seems to have once been a library. He immediately begins to pull volumes off the shelves.

“I have not read in _months_ ,” he exclaims. “Not since I came here—oh, this is wonderful!”

He glances behind him at Javert. “Is there not anything you would like to read? Wouldn’t you at least like to see the books?”

“I dislike reading. The words swim on the page, and it annoys me.”

“The words swim on the page?” Valjean asks, pausing.

“Do they not do that for everyone?”

“No.” Valjean grabs another book. “I will read to you, then. It will give us both something to do.”

“Ridiculous.”

The next day, Valjean sits beside Javert in his doorway and offers him two volumes. He chooses one, and Valjean opens it and begins to read it.

They spend the rest of the winter that way. Every afternoon, Javert excuses himself and goes out to hunt, and Valjean reads a different book. When Javert returns, Valjean starts a fire, and continues to read aloud as Javert cooks their dinner.

“Your voice is growing hoarse,” he tells Valjean one day, as winter is slipping away. “Rest it for a few days. A week, perhaps.”

Valjean does so. In truth, he is grateful for the rest, and he works on a small but intricate carving. Javert spends the week walking through the monastery. Valjean cannot say what he does.

By the time the week is up, Valjean is nearly finished with his carving. Javert sits beside him, but instead of reading, they talk. They discuss everything from their past to the law to the garden.

“Do you ever miss being a man?” Valjean asks one day. Javert looks at him with indignation.

“I mean it,” Valjean continues. He puts his knife down. “Do you miss it?”

“I suppose. It has been a long time, and it’s annoying, to look like a wolf-dog when I am a man. Was a man. I don’t know anymore.” Javert peers at his hands. “You and your daughter… you are the first people I’ve spoken to in five years. I dislike having claws, as well.”

“Who was the last person?”

“A traveling priest.”

“What was his name?” Valjean asks, picking up his carving again.

“Like I would tell you.”

“If you tell me,” he says mischievously, “I will leave you be.”

“I am not so sure that I want that anymore,” Javert says, cocking his head to one side. Valjean smiles. He reaches out and scratches behind Javert’s ears. For a moment, Javert looks almost peaceful.

Then he tears his head away, covering his face with his hands. “I cannot believe I let you do that,” he says, voice muffled. Valjean chuckles.

“Your fur is very soft,” he teases, and runs a hand over Javert’s ears. Javert growls.

“You are insufferable,” he complains. He shoves Valjean’s hand from his head.

 

The snows have melted, and the trees are blossoming when Valjean remembers his promise to his daughter.

“I have to go soon,” he tells Javert one day. He is carving again, the same piece he worked on the week he rested his voice. The original had fallen into the woodpile and been burned. Valjean is determined that this new carving shall be even better.

“Oh?” Javert says. “I have not yet answered your question.”

There is a note of worry in his voice, and Valjean marvels at it. He smiles slightly.

“You remember my daughter. When I left, I promised her that if you did not eat me, I would visit her at winter’s end, if only a moment.”

“Like I would have eaten you,” Javert mumbles.

“I miss her,” Valjean continues. He looks at his hands. “ I miss her a lot. I would like to see her again.”

“You can go. You are the only thing that keeps you here, Valjean. I have no power over you.” 

“Thank you.” He pauses. “I will come back.”

“You don’t have to if you don’t want to.”

“I will.”

 

He leaves the next day in the middle of the afternoon. It is still a half day’s walk, and Valjean does not wish to come in the daytime. He is sure the townspeople think him dead, and the more he considers it, the happier he is with that arrangement.

It is around midnight when he knocks on his daughter’s door. There is silence, and Valjean knocks again. His daughter opens it, wrapping a robe over her nightgown.

She beams. “Papa!”

Valjean smiles in return. Cosette flings her arms around him, then drags him inside.

She seats him at the table, places a cup of tea in his hands. It is cold, but Valjean drinks it anyway.

“Have you found your love again?” he asks, not quite sure how to begin this conversation.

Cosette’s eyes widen. “Oh! Yes. He came back, but I… I found another, in the time he was gone, and I find I like her quite a lot more.”

Valjean smiles. “If you are happy, that is all I care about.”

“I am.” She pours her own cold cup of tea. “She’s asleep, and I would like not to wake her…”

“I will be quiet.”

They talk for hours. Valjean shares his stories of Javert, how he has grown kinder and calmer in Valjean’s company, though he will never be a kind man. Cosette shares stories of her new lover and how the town has been in her father’s absence, as well as how she worried for him.

“The rest of the townspeople think you dead,” she says quietly. “They are convinced that the beast—Javert— killed you; his howls stopped as the summer turned to fall. They think he ate you then.”

“They are wrong, obviously. You can tell them I am alive if you like, but…” Valjean shrugs. “I do not care much either way.”

“Do you think it would be all right if I visited you at the monastery?” Cosette asks.

“Cosette, I…”

“I miss you,” she mumbles. “I miss you a lot.”

Valjean folds his hands over his daughter’s. “I will go back, and I will ask Javert. I miss you too. I will come back with the answer, I promise.”

“Thank you.”

He smiles slightly. “Is it all right if I take some of my books? The monastery has plenty, but it’s about God, mostly. It grows boring.”

“Of course.”

“And Cosette…”

“Yes?” 

He knits his brows together. “You’ll tell no one I was here, won’t you?”

“I’ll tell no one,” Cosette promises, and Valjean presses a kiss to her forehead.

 

He leaves before dawn once more, a bag of books over his shoulder. His daughter has promised that if her lover asks, she’ll tell where the books and the bag have gone, but she’ll swear the woman to secrecy. The vow comforts her father’s mind.

The walk to the monastery is slower than before, Valjean weighed down with books. He finally reaches it just past noon, when the sun is high.

He finds Javert in the garden, clumsily attempting to work the dirt. Valjean smiles and joins him silently.

“How was it?” Javert asks at last.

“Lovely,” Valjean murmurs. He pauses. “Javert… my daughter would like to visit me here.”

“What?”

Javert’s voice is very quiet. Valjean sits back, resting his hands on his thighs, and looks over at him.His expression is not angry, rather, _worried_.

“Javert?” Valjean asks tentatively. Javert’s gaze is fixed on the garden.

“Can she visit?” he presses. “I-I miss her so, and she misses me as well. She has sworn that she will not tell the townspeople about you. They believe I am dead, you know. That you ate me months ago.”

Javert gives a grating, humorless laugh. “That is well. I do not care what they think of me.”

“I want to see my daughter, and she wants to see me, but I told her that I would ask you first.” Valjean wipes a bit of dirt from his trousers. “What is your answer?”

“I do not know.”

He frowns.

“I do not know,” Javert repeats, and does not look at Valjean. “Your daughter wants to visit you. Such a thing would make you happy, and I would like you to be happy, but I… I do not wish to be seen like this.”

“You want me to be happy?” Valjean asks, incredulous.

“Yes.”

For a moment, he considers placing his hand on Javert’s, but touches his shoulder instead. “She has seen you already. And Cosette… she is the kindest child. Woman,” he amends. “She will not judge you for looking like this.”

“That is exactly the problem,” Javert snaps. “She has already seen me—but she saw me when I was a beast, when I was consumed with rage at my state, so lonely I howled to the moon and stars at night like the true wolves. But since you have come, Valjean… I do not know what I am. Now, I can say my mind is a man again, but I am still a beast.”

“That is untrue,” Valjean says softly.

Javert turns to look at him, and his human eyes are shining with tears. “Do you want to know how I became a beast, Valjean? Do you wish to hear?”

“Yes.”

He closes his eyes. When he speaks, his voice is thick.

“I—Four years ago, I compared your good deeds to your bad ones, and I came to the conclusion your re-arrest would be unjust. I could not let you go, either. So I threw myself in a river to drown myself.”

“Javert, I…”

“Be quiet,” Javert snaps, waving a hand. “I woke on the riverbank, a man no longer, and I was so confused that for the first time in my life, I sought out the help of the church. I went to this monastery, but it was empty, and I could not bring myself to go anywhere else. I did not eat, did not let myself sleep, in hope that my exhausted, _beastly_ body would give me what the riverbank and my human one could not.” 

He opens his eyes again, and his voice is a whisper. “A traveling priest found me as I was about to die. He—he brought me food, water. I had scratched my arms up, and he bandaged the wounds. When I could speak again, he listened. He worked out two possible ways I could become a man again: if I was loved by someone, which is how the beast returns to a man in the stories, or if I made peace with you. The priest favored the latter. I rejected both, and isolated myself here after he left.”

Then Javert throws his head back. For the first time in many months, he howls. When he looks at Valjean once more, his face is as despaired as a wolf-dog’s can be.

“I have made peace with you,” Javert sobs. “Why am I still a beast?”

Valjean smoothes his ears back. “I cannot tell you. I’m sorry.”

“I do not want to speak of this.”

“Of course,” he says gently. They return to gardening. Javert leaves in the evening to hunt, but when he comes back, his hands are empty. Valjean says nothing, simply asks him to fill a pot with water from the nearby river. He begins to prepare vegetables from what they have saved to make what he hopes will be a decent soup.

Javert has still not returned by the time sun sinks beneath the horizon. Valjean leaves for the river.

He fears the worst; thankfully, Javert is still standing on the riverbank. The pot is half-filled, but he still stares into the water. Valjean puts an arm around his shoulders and leads him away.

“I was simply looking at my reflection,” Javert murmurs as they walk to the monastery. “We have no mirrors.”

“I know. But I prefer to know that you are safe.” Valjean takes the pot from his hands. “Would you prefer to skip dinner tonight?”

“Yes,” Javert mumbles, eyes passing over the meager food.

He leads him to the abbot’s room. Javert moves to curl up in front of the hearth, but Valjean shakes his head.

“Sleep in the bed,” he orders, although he is gentle. “You are a man, Javert, and I refuse to let you lay on the ground.”

“Where will you sleep?” he asks cautiously.

“One of the monk’s beds. Wood will be uncomfortable, but…” Valjean shrugs. “It is nothing I haven’t experienced before.”

“No. No, Valjean. _I_ refuse to let you sleep like you are a prisoner again, do you hear me? You must use the bed.”

They argue a while longer, until the hearth is burning low and Valjean must add more wood to the fire. Eventually, they agree that he will sleep at one end, and Javert at the other. They continue to talk even so.

“What was the priest’s name?” Valjean asks, and it is his last question. He yawns. “The priest who found you?”

“Monseigneur Bienvenue.”

“Ah.”

Valjean says nothing else, but he remembers the silver candlesticks on his mantle and he thinks, _so he has saved us both_.

“Good night, Valjean,” Javert says eventually. But Valjean has fallen asleep already, and he receives no answer. He curls in on himself and tries to sleep.

 

The fire has gone out by the time Valjean wakes. He stretches, sitting up, and freezes.

Asleep at the other end of the bed is not a beast, but a man. He knows the man’s face very well.

Javert’s face is more lined than he remembers, his hair grayer and undone, but it is undoubtedly Javert.

“Javert,” Valjean whispers, crawling forward on the bed. “Javert, wake up—you are a man again!”

“Hm?”

The man sits up, rubbing at his eyes with the back of his hands. He freezes. He looks up at Valjean with awe, the touch of a smile on his face.

“I am myself again,” he whispers. “I—Valjean! I am myself!”

“You are!”

Valjean is hardly surprised when Javert flings himself at him, wrapping his arms around his neck. He holds Javert too and buries his face in the man’s shoulder.

“I’m not a beast,” Javert sobs. “Not anymore. Not anymore.”

“Not anymore,” Valjean echoes with a smile.

Javert pulls backwards, clawless hands clutching at Valjean’s arms. His eyes are wet with tears, and he whispers, “thank you.”

Valjean smiles as he wipes the tears away. “I did nothing.”

“You are far too humble.”

“Your eyes never changed, did you know that?” he asks. “They have always been human. You have lovely eyes.”

“Thank you.”

It is Valjean who leans forward, pressing his lips to Javert’s, but Javert simply pulls him closer.

 

There is still howling in the hills, but it is only at night, and it never grows too loud.

The townspeople still speak in whispers about the beast. _He takes our cattle, and once he howled so loud an old man gave himself up and the beast ate him! Likely he will grow hungry again._

The old man’s daughter and her wife visit the monastery often. The townspeople say it is to try and bargain for the old man’s bones, and the women do not correct them.

In truth, if one were to visit the monastery, they would see that the garden is well kept and the chapel and monastery, once in such disrepair, have been repaired. Most days, an old man sits in the front courtyard. He reads or carves wood, and tends to the garden.

His husband has taken up hunting, and if one looks hard enough, one might find a terribly tall man with a near-constant frown walking the hills. When he laughs, it is oddly similar to a bark. He tends to the garden as well but is the first to admit his efforts are not skilled ones, and he is trying to learn sketching with the help of his husband’s daughter. He is hoping to find another hobby besides hunting, which is too violent for his husband’s tastes.

In the evenings, his husband reads aloud to him while he cooks. He is getting quite good at cooking.

A small, intricate carving rests on their bedside table. It is the carving the old man was working on the week the beast became a man. It is the image of a wolf-dog beast, wrapped in a greatcoat and curled up as though he rests in front of a hearth. They do not speak of it, but the old man sometimes holds it with fondness in his eyes, and his husband cannot help but feel warmth for the look in his eyes.

The old man’s daughter and her wife brings a baby girl with them on their visits. The child is named Fantine, and her mothers have decided that her sister’s name shall be Jeanne when she is born. There are still a few months left, but Javert is certain that the child is a girl. He acquired a way of _knowing_ things as a beast, and it has stayed with him.

Often he and Éponine argue. Éponine may be seven months pregnant, but she is still as spirited as ever, and Javert has never backed down from a debate. Valjean and Cosette swallow laughter as they watch, baby Fantine on Valjean’s knee. He is glad that his husband has found another hobby, and Cosette is glad her wife has someone to argue with.

 

It has been years since the old man has been to the town. He does not mind.

The only thing he would miss is his daughter, and she visits him anyway. Here in the monastery, he has his books and his garden, and that is enough for him.

Almost enough.

Here in the monastery, he has his books and his garden and his husband, who is a beast no longer.


End file.
